1. Put your iTunes on shuffle and list the first 25 songs2. Link to the song lyrics (doing one better, linking to the songs. Ha. You can simply listen to them or DL them.)3. Post the songs for others to give you prompts based on the song of their choice.

**A general mood will be taken into consideration if given. Please specify if you'd like to see your muse in the drabble or not or a specific scene.**

Also, if there's a specific verse or what-have-you you want, let me know.

It's what Circe would call a "playroom", but Dean just calls it his office. His own little bit of paradise in the dungeons, where he takes those that Sam wants broken extra special and works them over, tears them down to their core and then slowly, relentlessly, and joyful chips away at what's left inside them until it's nothing but shards. It's both his work and his passion, and Sam never fails but to give him the best material to work with.

Like now.

Like the angel.

He tosses Castiel down onto the worktable, clamping shackles tight around his wrists and ankles, smiling down at him, letting his eyes bleed black. "Too late, flyboy." He caresses the angel's cheek, letting his hand drift down over his shoulder, toying with his nipple through his torn shirt. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Crazy times, crazy times -- I owe replies and snuggles and such to y'all, and I will get to them in the next few days. Crazy times I do believe are mostly over. Sorry for the delays on things and I'll try to catch up quick.

She was so small and little, and they didn’t know what to do. Dean was numb, nearly in shock as he carried the little girl from the wreckage, Sam right beside him. They got quietly into the car and drove down the road, and it wasn’t until they drove around the bend, what was left of the Roadhouse disappearing behind a stand of trees, that she started screaming.

“Take me back! Take me back!”

Sam was driving, tears rolling down his face, and Dean held onto her as best he could, her fists beating against his chest, his face, clawing at the door. He made soft soothing sounds, didn’t know if they were the right ones, didn’t know what else to do.

“I want Jo! I want my sister! I want Mom! I want my mommy!”

He just pulled her closer as she screamed, until the screams turned into sobs and she retreated into herself, so terribly, awfully small in his arms, and only then did he realize that he was crying, too.

Ellen’s message had been short, painfully blunt. Something’s coming, boys. Don’t know what it is. But it’s bad, and me and Jo, well, we’re not gonna make it. The little one’s seen it and she’s not wrong about these things. Don’t have time to dance around the topic with you, so here it is: her name’s Abigail Rose, she’ll be six next month, and she’s your sister. And don’t get mad, don’t get upset at your daddy because I never told him. It was a one night thing long ago and we were fine, us girls, just how we were. But it looks like we’ve come to the end of our run. So you get up here and you get her and you take care of her, cause I’m not gonna be there to do it.

They’d left immediately, San Diego fading away behind them within the hour, Sam’s face set in the passenger seat beside him, and for two straight days they drove across the country, wearing out their cell phone batteries trying to reach her, but it was nothing doing and by the time they got there whatever the little girl had seen in her vision had happened. And there she was -- tiny and scared and in shock, the rubble and ash around her, waiting.

They got a motel room the next town over. Sam carried the bags and Dean carried Abi, the little girl asleep in his arms, dirty and sooty, her face tear streaked, her thumb in her mouth. Sam made a move to take her once they were in the room but Dean shook his head, sitting down on one of the rickety motel chairs, rocking her gently back and forth while Sam poured the salt lines and pulled out the guns to do the nightly check and did all of those things that they’d done every day for so many years, all the little tasks and chores of settling in, so natural and second-nature that they were easier than thought, small, comforting routines that made up the rhythm of their lives.

But what now? He was silent, his mind drifting from thought to thought with no real direction, still trying to understand, to believe that he had a little sister, to know that Ellen and Jo were dead, to let the idea sink in that he was now responsible for this little girl, so small, so sad in his arms. He looked up, catching Sam’s eye, and he held out his arms to take her but Dean just shook his head again, holding her tighter, not ready yet.

She was small and beautiful and perfect and theirs. Tomorrow they’d start to figure things out. How to be who and what they were, how to finish the fight they were in, how in God’s name they were going to care for a little girl when they were officially dead fugitives, with all of Heaven and Hell gunning for them. Tomorrow he and Sam would start the process of weaving Abi into their lives. And while he had no idea how they’re going to do it, they would. They had to.

Because she’s theirs. She’s family. And if there’s one thing that he knows how to do, it’s take care of family.

He reaches out, touching her hair, letting his hand slide down her back, smiling as his fingers whisper over her soft skin. He leans over and kisses her shoulder before settling back down on the bed.

The radiator is chugging away valiantly, trying to warm the air, but the wind is still whipping around outside, too many long miles of frozen prairie behind it. No little radiator is going to stand up against that, no glass, regardless of how thick it is, will keep out all that cold. The wind even whips through the thin crack under the door, and he pulls the covers up further over himself and adjusts them over Faith as well.

She’s beautiful. He’s known it since the first time he saw her. It’s obvious that she’s sexy, that she knows and owns it, that she lets her charisma settle over her skin like armor. But she’s beautiful, too -- when she’s laughing, more often than not at him, eyes dancing as she gives back even better than she’s given; when she’s fighting, moving like a bloody goddess on the battlefield killing everything that stands between her and her objective, between her and the execution of what she is; when she’s dirty and sweaty under the Impala with him, handing him tools with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirked in amusement; when she’s under him, when he moves deep inside her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, when her head’s thrown back and she’s moaning, clawing at him as she comes, body trembling --

But she’s beautiful, too, like this. Asleep, her face soft and relaxed, her hair spread out around her. She’s beautiful, and he --

He loves her. He didn’t want to love her, didn’t want to fall for her like this. Because it’s him, and because it’s her, and because of what they are. But when it’s like this, when she’s asleep beside him and the wind rages outside, when it’s just them against the world and the night and the cold, he loves her with a stupid love that he had always thought was made up in bad movies and fairy tales and hallmark cards.

He slides closer to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him, and she murmurs a bit but doesn’t wake up really, her arms circling around him, and he smiles, taking a deep breath.

He loves her and he wakes up amazed every morning that she’s in his arms -- and he knows that if he can’t find a way to tell her, that sooner or later he’s going to wake up and she’ll be gone.

If your muse has ever wanted a good snuggle/cuddle/hug with my muse, comment here.

I'll write at least 250 words with the pairing. Every fic is to be considered just that, fanfiction, and not actually RP history unless you request that it is. You're welcome to leave any sort of suggestions for the fics you want, be it genre, a prompt or scenario. Things can be platonic or romantic, just let me know which one you’d prefer.